


Cacophony

by Lilyliegh



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Barian Emperors all live in the Kamishiro Mansion, Bickering, Cooking, Love/Hate, M/M, Post-Canon, Vector is a dick and he knows it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 05:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilyliegh/pseuds/Lilyliegh
Summary: Sometimes, Vector just wants to smash a plate to see something break.Because apparently no matter what Vector does, no matter how he acts, he’s just making “accidents.”Because no matter what a person does, they can be forgiven.





	Cacophony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xephonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xephonia/gifts).



> hi, Shion!! you totally already knew i got your request, and tbh there was so much i could have done with this plot but i wanted something like a twist on domesticity, like how Vector just does not fit into the mundane world and 'redemption' only makes more problems for him, and the fact that Vector is _everyone else's_ problem. i hope i got enough bickering and love-hate in this fic for ya (:

Sometimes, Vector wants to smash a plate just to see something break. This place, Heartland City, is full of things that never break in the places Vector wants them to. For one reason, he usually ends up breaking the wrong thing. When he threw marbles out the window of his classroom, aiming at a bunch of lollygagging second- and third-years, he missed and hit the fountain instead. Then, to rub his bad luck in his face, those students he was aiming at gathered the marbles as if it was a daily good luck charm.

It didn’t work.

He didn’t break  _ anything _ .

Other times, Vector does end up breaking something, but he doesn’t get the response he wants. On another school day, he pushed Yuuma’s lunch off the table and onto the floor. He didn’t even say it was an accident, but Yuuma made that excuse for him and cracked a joke about how he could use the dirty food for a food fight. Any idiot with two eyes would have known Vector pushed the tray on purpose, and yet Yuuma still tried to forgive him. 

He broke  _ something,  _ but it wasn’t very satisfying.

Which brings Vector to his current situation in his bedroom, with his back on the bed and his gaze up to the ceiling littered with pasty, dimly-lit glow in the dark stars. Despite Vector’s room being pitch-black, the stars only emit a dim, sickly light that makes Vector scowl. It’s also only five in the afternoon, when the sky shouldn’t be so damn dark but apparently in the winter the sun fucks off and drowns the city in darkness.

Sighing, Vector rolls himself to the side. Some days, he’d like to fuck off and drown the city in darkness too. He’s done it before – many times, in fact, but in different cities – but most likely if he tried to break anything that big Yuuma and the other would just write it off as “an accident.”

Because apparently no matter what Vector does, no matter how he acts, he’s just making “accidents.”

Because no matter what a person does, they can be forgiven.

With another sigh, Vector drags his gaze up to the door. If he squints his eyes and purses his lips, it sparks all his senses and he can hear his roommates downstairs. He can hear Nasch and Merag and Durbe in the kitchen making dinner, and Gilag and Alit somewhere else downstairs talking loudly about a new anime they found on the television. Mizael’s the only one who’s quiet, thank the gods, but he could also be in his room.

Vector stomps his feet down on the ground, hoping the impact will make a dent in the floor. He’s smashing his foot down on  _ carpet  _ though, so the loudest noise he can make is a dull rumble that no one will be able to hear.

Cursing, Vector stomps across the room and yanks open the door. He lets it crash against the wall, a much more satisfying noise, and struts down the hallway. His room is towards the end of the hall; all the rooms are in one long row, with Nasch and Merag at the front because their royal feet can’t walk more than a few steps … at least, that’s the bullshit Vector chooses to believe.

At the top of the stairwell, Vector hones his hearing again so he can catch his roommates’ chatter. They’re all laughing, the bastards. Every single one of them down there is having a jolly ol’ time – doing what, making curry? Ordering take-out is the superior option because then you don’t have to wash dishes.

Vector kicks the wall to alert everyone of his presence, and then hops down the stairs one at a time. By the time he makes it into view, all five pairs of eyes are on him. Sure enough, Nasch, Merag, and Durbe are at the counters littered with cutting boards and vegetables, pots and pans too. Alit and Gilag are at the bar overlooking the kitchen, though Gilag’s attention quickly turns back to his mobile phone; no doubt he has some idol video playing.

Nasch is the first to speak up. His face pinches and narrows in a way that makes Vector’s grin grow even wider. Vector  _ loves  _ it when Nasch pulls faces at him because, for once, he looks alive. When Nasch was a boy-king or a fake-king or a wanna-be-Barian-king, he looked dead. 

“What,” Nasch says, cutting off Vector’s last thump on the stairs, “are you doing?”

“Coming to say hi to my buddies,” Vector says. At the bottom of the stairs, he does a little bow. Then he siddles up to the counter, resting his chin on its clean, smooth surface. He gazes down the length of the table, searching for his favourite pair of eyes. When Vector can get Nasch’s undivided attention, sparks fly.

And … he does.

Nasch has  _ big  _ eyes, like a doe-eyed schoolgirl. They’re all shades of blue – aquamarine, veridian, cerulean, cobalt. Vector could write a disgustingly saccharine poem about all the wonders he sees in Nasch’s eyes, but he likes them best when Nasch narrows them to thin slits, cheekbones rising, nose scrunching up – all those little gestures that bring Nasch’s face together, closer –

_ “Nasch,”  _ Vector drawls.

Vector always gets the reaction he wants from Nasch.

Nasch steps back, huffing. He won’t back away, too kingly for that, but Vector knows how to intimidate a fellow Barian Emperor. 

“Whatcha cookin’, Naschtie?” he asks.

It’s Rio who pipes up.  _ She’ll  _ challenge him. She draws herself up and over the counter, leaning towards him with such an icy, piercing gaze that Vector feels the chill before she’s inches away from him. Her sharp bangs mark the jagged edges of her cheeks and the cut of her face.  _ I can be yuor angle or your devil,  _ Vector once told her.

“Dinner,” she says, “and you’ll do good to stay out of the kitchen.”

“The more the merrier,” Vector says to her. He slides a step more into the kitchen, toeing at the divide between the carpet of the living room and the tile of the kitchen. If he stomped around in this room, he’d make quite the racket. It would undoubtedly piss off his roommates, but it’s not the reaction Vector wants … not really, at least.

The closer Vector gets to the kitchen, the more he wants to make an explosion. His fingers itch to create chaos and madness in the house. It’s  _ mundane  _ here, living and breathing and going to school and hanging out with not-friends. How humans keep up with this life is beyond Vector, but now that he’s home Vector wants to unwind, let loose, and cause mayhem.

So he starts by weaving around the kitchen, past the trio cooking and chopping. None of them kick him out, which pisses Vector off: he wants a brawl right from the start. Instead, they all watch him.

_ Well that’s no fun,  _ Vector thinks.

“Oi, oi!” he says to Alit and Gilag. “What’re ya watching there?”

Gilag, an actual man-child, turns the screen around for Vector to see, beaming with such unbridled, innocent, and  _ gross  _ joy. His round face with puffy lips and thick, strong bones has somehow dissolved away into a tender expression that makes Vector sick to his stomach. On the screen is something equally gross and – dare Vector think it –  _ cute:  _ a young female idol, her hair in twintails that are then shaped into little hearts.

“Sanagi-chan!” Gilag coos.

Vector sticks his thumb up in the air and bounces his hand. “Crank it up,” he says.

Gilag, face sill split in a dorky, disgusting grin, turns the music all the way up. For such a small device, the phone can make quite the racket. Alit, Durbe, and Nasch all clap their hands over their ears. Gilag and Merag are less affected but no less bothered by the sudden increase in noise – because that’s what it is, no longer music but some banshee squeal to a bass that shakes the glass cupboards. It hurts Vector’s ears too, but he lets the noise wash over him like an army’s battle cry.

That is until Nasch mutes the song.

“Out,” he says.

“But I want to be with  _ you,”  _ Vector says. “I’ve missed you –”

“And I haven’t. Out.”

This time, there’s a larger spark. Nasch isn’t shouting, but his voice, all rich and regal, is like sweet, intoxicating syrup. Vector wants to lick all of it up; he wets his lips just thinking about Nasch, standing there in sweats and a t-shirt, wearing an apron so he doesn’t get his clothing all dusty and dirty. Domesticity looks good on Nasch.

Vector slides across the tiled floor, past the three Barians at the counter, and stops just to the side of Merag. He leans close, ignoring her pointed gaze, and peeks over at what they’re cooking – little dumplings, or equally fat and globby foods that make Vector’s stomach curl. He hates all the rich, greasy foods here in this mundane world. He retches just thinking about the meal his fellow emperors expect him to eat.

Durbe raises a thin, slender eyebrow. “Is it not to your liking, Vector?”

“It looks like ball sacks –”

He doesn’t get the rest of the words out before Merag elbows him hard in the ribs. Vector leans over and wheezes towards the ground, one hand pushing into the wound. That’s sure to leave a bruise.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vector sees Nasch’s eyes on him, and even though his breath comes out weak and wheezy, he can’t help but comment: “Like what you see, Nasch?”

He  _ snaps. _

Pure, unbridled rage comes torrenting over Vector, grabbing him by the shoulders and wheeling him out of the kitchen like one of those little trolleys. Vector feels Nasch’s sharp fingernails dig through his shirt and puncture his skin, and it sends a shiver of pleasure down his spine. Against his cheek Vector feels Nasch’s hot breath, erratic because he’s so hot and flustered and  _ bothered.  _ Vector lives for riling Nasch up, unhinging him to become the Mad King Vector once was.

“I hate you,” Nasch says.

Vector leans back into Nasch’s arms; for a second, there’s a sense of weightlessness around him, and Vector thinks that Nasch has dropped him to the floor. But then the feeling of hands on his shoulders returns, and Vector breathes a sigh of relief to know that Nasch is still holding him. 

“I’m glad,” Vector says.

“You’re a dick,” Nasch says.

“I try.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be.”

“I bet you like it.”

“Out.”

Vector steps forward and out of Nasch’s embrace. He’s been moved into the gallery room, or whatever posh name there is for a room decorated with old-as-ass paintings and knight armour and whatever else the late Kamishiro Family owned before their death. The room has high ceilings that makes the room seem more like a grand auditorium.

Nasch stays in the doorway, glaring at his feet. “I don’t know why we keep you around some days.”

_ Tut, tut, tut.  _ Vector smacks his lips together. “Without me, Nasch, who would you have to hate?”

He stomps back to the kitchen, anger dissolved into the four walls of the room. Even from this room, Vector can smell the cooking, hear the laughter and chatter; he knows what goes on outside of these very four walls too. 

_ Without me,  _ Vector thinks,  _ who would let you hate with all your being? _


End file.
